The butterflies
are sailors from Puccini. The insects
are kamikazes, the streetlights
are blazing carriers in the ocean

but they aren’t,
but they are,

but they aren’t.

There is fire, but elsewhere there’s mint.
Then there are ashes, the mint still grows,
and its scent is somehow cool
against the warm night air.

There’s charcoal, there’s sleep:
one of them is a glacier,
I wish it was sleep,
but I can’t sleep,

I’m thinking of you,

then we get to the fire again,

and you can’t

balance anything on a flame.

So things keep moving around,
I have to carry them with me:

there’s driftwood, there’s a glacier,
and one of them is a ghost,
I want the fire to be the ghost

but it’s these words,
telling you I want you.

My memories
are travellers without homes. Our kisses
are coated with pollen, our fingers
are scented with mint from the night garden

but they aren’t,
but they are,

but they aren’t.

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